


The Weirwood Tree

by firiette



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firiette/pseuds/firiette
Summary: The King in the North returns home, but not as a king, and dragons as well as winter have finally come to Winterfell.





	The Weirwood Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Uh I wasn't satisfied with season 7 so while we wait for a whole year until the next season is out, have what I really wanted to happen? Canon divergence after season 7 episode 6

Sansa is sewing one late afternoon with Ghost asleep across her feet when she finally receives news. She is working on the collar of a new dress, humming to herself a bawdy song she heard the guards singing, comfortable in the knowledge that not a soul but the direwolf could possibly hear her in her solar. Needle-working is all she has these days to keep her hands and mind busy, to offer her some sort of loose comfort as the weeks have stretched by without a single letter from Jon. She is loathe to admit how often she stands at the wall to look across the white fields, or the hours she spends keeping a faithful watch out of her window for a raven.

Bran and Arya are home safe.

That is enough.

Still, she would prefer to have his council on the matters of the North. Bran has said he's no lord and stays true to his word; he keeps his solitude mostly away from Winterfell, alternating between outside the walls and the godswood. Arya is of little help either, brawling with Brienne or disappearing down into the crypts when sword fighting manages to bore her. The Lords grow more restless with each passing day they don't hear from their King and Sansa grows weary of placating them, assuring them of Jon's loyalty when she herself can't promise that he will even return. There is little to keep them occupied now that winter is beginning to truly set in and their imaginings seem to be too readily focused on either Jon's death or his ultimate betrayal.

And there are other matters. Lord Baelish has gotten more bold as of late, touching her hand or grasping her arm when they are in passing. He watches her always, she knows this, and she also knows that he has employed more spies in the form of whores. They're mere girls, mostly from Northern villages, and they listen for whispered secrets in exchange for the coins he gives them. Sometimes Sansa hears the jingle of gold dragons in their pockets, disappearing around a corner or into an abandoned hall. Brienne has sworn her sword and Sansa's own sister a type of assassin with unknown skills, and still Sansa feels unsafe, feels Lord Baelish's many eyes at her back.

Knuckles rapping against her door thankfully pull her from her thoughts and Ghost is on his feet in an instant, tail wagging at her and barking. Before she can bid come in, the door is bashing open and Arya steps in, fur cloak soaked and snow melting in her short hair.

Sansa sighs and sets her needlework aside on her dresser. “I've told you, it's not polite to –”

“Sansa.” 

Immediately, Sansa sits up straighter in her chair. This Arya is not the Arya she has known all her girlhood – cool, calculated, almost otherwordly at times. Her tone catches Sansa's attention, though, and she waits for whatever her sister has to say.

Eventually she speaks again, almost smiling as she instructs, “It's Jon.”

The words are unexpected and catch her swiftly off guard. Her heart lurches when she thinks of the possibilities, her mind drawing up horrible images that she chose not to think on over these many silent weeks. Dry as her throat is, she has to swallow twice before she can open her mouth and speak.

“Is he…”

“He's home.”

Sansa stands on shaking legs, her hands automatically reaching for her gloves and cloak. She does up the clasps slowly, carefully smoothing her hair of any tangles, pulling the gloves over her fingers. She is a lady first and foremost – she can't be seen racing across Winterfell as wild as a madwoman, no matter how she wishes to. Together, the two sisters begin to walk the darkening halls, Ghost at a low trot between them.

After a moment, Arya continues, “And he's brought that Dragon Queen with him. Daenerys Stormborn or whatever.”

“I see.” There's precious else for her to say, and so she looks down and offers, “I should have worn something more formal.”

“Don't see why it matters.” Arya's face scrunches up in disgust. “I don't care what she's Queen of. I'm not wearing a dress.”

Indeed, Sansa hardly expects anything less. It's good to see Arya slightly more herself, stubborn as she may be. Besides, Sansa has long accepted that Arya's destiny is not to be a true lady, and perhaps she'll spend the entirety of her life dressed in leather and breeches like a man. It's hardly sensible to picture her in a flowing silk gown as she mucks about in the mud with her deadly little sword.

They walk the rest of the way in silence because there's nothing left to say between them. In the best of times, before they went south, they hadn't shared much in the way of things in common. Arya with her love for playing at war and Sansa with her desire to marry a golden prince. Only one of them had been the fool for it.

Now, they stand side by side on the wall, as they have done more often than not. From up here, she sees them. The hoards of Dothraki screamers on their horses and the Unsullied in their black armor, tiny as ants, materialize on the muddied roads, stretching out for what must be miles. She feels dread set in her bones, knowing that this army is necessary for the war beyond the Wall, but unable to abandon the uncertainty in her gut.

It grows as they descend to the courtyard and she sees the wary eyes of her own men tracking her path as she goes. The Gate Guard, Sorrell Wel, bows his head to her and her sister. He barely gives Ghost any attention, used to seeing the Starks with the direwolf close by.

“It's King Jon Snow, my ladies,” Sorrell announces, although it sounds like a question.

“Well, then,” Sansa says. “Raise the gate.”

The gate rises to her bidding and in with the wind rides Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow.

She's heard rumors on the loveliness of the great Mother of Dragons. Men in Winterfell were the exact same as men anywhere else – they whisper of the most beautiful Queen to walk Westeros, of the woman who is a proud statue of white hair and goat's milk skin, eyes as cold and unpenetrating as dragon scales. 

There's a lot more commentary on her tits and arse too, but Sansa tends not to pay attention to those. Little men with little minds.

By all rights, she is indeed lovely, though not exactly like the stories say, which is usually how stories work. She sits strong and pale like a wierwood tree, dressed all in white fur, her long silver blonde hair pulled back in tight, intricate braids that Sansa would be jealous of if she were the same girl she was before King's Landing. 

“She's not that beautiful,” Sansa murmurs under her breath. At her side, Arya hides her grin in her furs.

And then there is Jon. He sits atop his horse riding close behind Daenerys, a stark contrast to her white, a crown of snowflakes settled into his hair. He still wears the cloak Sansa sewed for him, regal and taller than he himself would admit. Exhausted circles are smudged under his eyes and his clothes are damp but he looks no worse for wear. Sansa must bite her lip to keep from making a spectacle of herself, though she does allow herself to watch him, her fingers sinking in Ghost's fur. Jon watches her back, and, as he dismounts and approaches them, one whispered word flies off his tongue.

“Arya.”

Jon holds her close and it takes only a moment for Arya to lean against him. She's so much taller now than when she was a child, but she still seems so small surrounded by his black cloak. Sansa almost laughs at how Arya's brown tuft of hair practically disappears in Jon's arms, how she loses a bit of that furrow between her brows. It's a relief, Sansa thinks, to see that the Faceless Men haven't taken everything from her.

Arya steps away first, tugging her leather tunic straight. “I'm gone for a few years and you're King of the North, off fighting wights.” 

The corners of Jon's mouth tick up. “And you've got a dagger.”

“Valyrian steel.”

“Jon.” Sansa steps forward, places her hand on his arm. It's a reassurance to her that he's safe and alive as much as to gain his attention. She wishes she wasn't wearing gloves just so she could feel his heat, know his heart beats still. “Bran's home too.”

“Bran?” His eyes widen imperceptibly. “Where –”

“Lord Snow.” Daenerys unmounts from her horse – not riding her dragons, Sansa notes – and the entire Winterfell courtyard becomes silent as death. 

Lord Snow. 

The words are ashes in Sansa's ears. She removes her hand.

Daenerys joins him at his side, a slight, thin girl now that Sansa sees her closely, probably almost the age Robb would be had he lived. By all rights, she doesn't look like she could command armies or be a breaker of chains, and yet Sansa herself knows that women are deceptive creatures. There is more power to them than history has given them credit. Daenerys is not Queen yet, but she will be. A queen of what, she doesn't know, though she hopes it's not of burnt cities and broken ruins.

“Your Grace.” Jon steps aside, gesturing awkwardly. He has never been one for social graces. “These are my sisters, Ladies Sansa and Arya Stark.”

Daenerys, however, seems more accustomed to courtly matters. She inclines her head to Sansa. “A pleasure to meet you both. Perhaps it would be more pleasant under different circumstances.”

Sansa can't imagine feeling any pleasant feelings towards this woman in any circumstances. But she does not hate her, not as she hates Queen Cersei or the Night King, and perhaps that's enough for now. There is a larger war and other things to be discussed later.

“These are dark times,” Sansa relents. “We're honored to have you here in our home.”

“Truly.” Daenerys' silver eyebrow flickers up. She clasps her hands in front of her. “Honor aside. My men are tired and hungry, Lady Sansa. Any food or bedding you could spare would be appreciated.”

“Of course. I'll ask the cook to prepare some meals for your…men,” she falters, remembering the Dothraki hoards she saw over the wall. How terrible they looked and how little they seemed to her to be men. “If you need anything, please, let me know. We don't have much, but we won't allow our allies to starve.”

Sansa hopes it doesn't show in her voice how much she wishes the opposite. Too many Northerners have paid for the wars in the south with boys and blood, they will not starve for them now, too. But if the gods be willing, none of them will go hungry during this long winter. And that there will be people left to worry over after this war is done.

Arya stands expectantly in the snow, one hand resting on her little Needle. “Where are your dragons?” she asks.

Sansa is embarrassed. “Arya!”

“That's all right. When I was a girl, I wanted to see dragons too.” Daenerys' gaze is not on them, but farther above. “They're here.”

And then Sansa hears it, a wind almost like a storm rising up above the distant hills. She swears she feels a heat with it, too, blazing against her face – the warmth of a forest aflame or the roaring crackling of a burning pyre.

Twin shadows, one far larger than the other, cast across the entirety of Winterfell. Their screeches send the ground beneath Sansa's feet shaking, shocking and loud. Around her, some poor men in the courtyard shout and crouch as though expecting a talon to swoop down to pick them up, one startled serving-girl screaming up at the sky. Arya looks up with calculating fascination, Sansa with barely concealed awe, as Daenerys' terrifying children circle over them like scaled vultures.

“They were supposed to make a less threatening appearance.”

Tyrion's voice comes as much as a surprise as anything else that's happened today. Sansa barely is able to tear her attention away from the dragons landing behind Winterfell to watch the dwarf stepping out of a carriage, followed closely on his heels by a tall dark woman dressed seriously in a deep shade of black.

Daenerys seems somehow pleased, her expression softening. “My children are dragons, Lord Tyrion, not rabbits.”

“At least they're not breathing fire.” He says it with the meaning of joking but there's something to his eyes that suggests he's serious. It makes Sansa shiver. 

He grins then, as he sets sights on her, and reaches up to take her hand. This close, there is no mistaking the pin displayed proudly upon his breast. Sansa could hardly miss it if she tried. 

“Lady Sansa, how good it is to see you again.”

“And to see you.” This, at least, is not a lie. She meets Jon's dark eyes from atop Tyrion's bronze head, but he quickly turns away when she does, jaw tight and solemn.

Tyrion lets her hand go and addresses his white-haired sovereign. “Well, the day has been long, My Queen. I, for one, am in need of some good wine and a bed that's not tossing about on a boat.”

“No,” Daenerys says, her back straight as a sword, violet eyes sharply looking over them all. “There will be plenty of time for rest later. I think I should meet your Northern Lords.”

Most likely every person in the North has heard of Daenerys Targaryen's arrival by now, and soon every Lord will know as well by the time the sun finishes setting in the west today. Sansa doesn't feel the need to point this out, though, or that they'll be less than inclined to hear what a foreign usurper has to say. They will at least listen for Jon's sake. Even if, Sansa suspects, that he's no longer to be called their King.

He walks slightly behind her now, quiet as he always is. She feels his cloak brush hers with each step and she aches to voice the questions, the accusations, that tug against her lips. This is not the time, she reminds herself. Above all, she has missed him. Above all, he's betrayed them.

The echoing calls of dragons follow her through the doors of Winterfell.


End file.
